


from afar

by addictedtoacertainlifestyle



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Multi, Possibly Unrequited Love, emphasis on the hurt, implied mental health issues, it's just clyde being sad and insecure and angry what can i say?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addictedtoacertainlifestyle/pseuds/addictedtoacertainlifestyle
Summary: Just the two of you, and the whole wide world somewhere out of his reach. This thought runs through him like electricity, and his body tenses as if he’d been shocked.He doesn’t want you here, this close to him.He is overjoyed that you’re here, right next to him.





	from afar

  It’s a busy, rustling Friday evening. One amongst the others.

  Clyde is hard at work, both hands full of the usual bustle of the bar. It’s nothing he hasn’t been able to handle before, so he carries on like he always does, and let’s be honest – for him, there is something soothing in the rush and gathering of people. He’s right there in the middle, almost invisible, but he prefers it that way. Remaining quiet in the midst of all this noise is a fine skill, one he is somewhat proud to have mastered.

  Of course, this façade of certainty and calm comes crumbling down when the door opens and you walk in.

  It starts from the chest: the feeling, that is. One leap of his suddenly restless heart, a silent greeting of his that you don’t notice. But that’s to be expected. He’s not someone people want to pay attention to, and when they do, it comes in the form of innocent but inconsiderate curiosity, or mockery. Either or.

  After that, comes the equally silent but equally powerful delve of his excitement, the little ember of hope squished into dust as he sees who you have brought with you.

  Behind you trails the rest of your friend group, faces and names he never bothered to stitch together in his mind. From the jealousy, maybe, or just plain disinterest. Nevertheless, he has his eyes on you only.

  The whole ragtag and you as their faithful leader, walk to the counter and order what you usually do: indeed, you’re not an unusual sight here. Especially on Fridays. It is a perfect day to unwind, and for some reason it’s always Duct Tape that you come to, and never alone. Always with your friends.

  He knows the order just because it’s more convenient this way, and not because he wants to impress you. That is long gone: after the second time you didn’t seem to notice it anymore.

  The others take the drinks and go find seats, but you don’t follow them, much to Clyde’s surprise. You slide into a bar stool in front of the counter, watch him clean one of the glasses; his hand twitches involuntarily, just from your presence so very near him. Just the two of you, and the whole wide world somewhere out of his reach. This thought runs through him like electricity, and his body tenses as if he’d been shocked.

  He doesn’t want you here, this close to him.

  He is overjoyed that you’re here, right next to him.

  “Hey. It’s good to see you,” you greet, but frown when he doesn’t respond. “You doing okay?”

  Clyde takes a deep breath and sets the glass aside. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. You just look a little lost, and it takes one to know one, right?” you say, chuckling. He doesn’t have time to process what you just said, because you continue immediately, cocking your head to the side a little: “Relationship trouble?”

  Fuck, is he really _that_ see-through?

  “Might be,” he ends up saying, through a clench of his jaw. The swell in his chest is too much, when you’re right there in front of him, eyes open and honest; curious, even, like you’d actually care what he has to say, what kind of avalanches are reaching up to a breaking point within him.

  “Do you… want to talk about it?”

  “Nah, I’m doin’ fine.” It’s a blatant lie, one he’s not doing a good job of concealing but he hopes that you don’t get yourself tangled into it and let it pass instead. Better have a clear cut, a simple sentence to end this before anything else might take place. This is already becoming too much; one more sentence and he will snap, or confess. He doesn’t want either to happen. “You– you should get back to your friends.”

  “They can handle themselves. I just wanna make sure you’re alright. You’re my friend too.”

  He looks you in the eyes, a sharp tug of something stinging within him, and forces down the burn in his throat that closes on the word _friend_. “Well, I am alright. Nothin’ for you to burden yourself with.”

  “Clyde, you know you’re not a–“

  You are interrupted when your friends yelp your name. Turning around, you heave a sigh and watch as they gesture you to go to the table, raising their glasses in invitation.

  “It seems that I really do have to go,” you end up remarking. Clyde can’t decide whether your voice is disappointed or relieved.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Have fun.”

  “Will do,” are your last words before you hop off the stool and head back to your friends, who seem to be cheering now. You slide into the booth and accept a drink someone offers you.

  Right now, everything happens in his chest, close to the heart, where blood comes and goes and carries your name within it, through his body. Every atom of his being, all that is holding him together, is threatening to take flight and it’s carving a hole in his chest the dept of the Mariana Trench. If it gets out of control, he is going to collapse like a broken machine. A machine with flaws so many that the collision is inevitable. But he wants to hold it off, save the last spluttering moments and not let himself break in front of an audience.

  It is anger, he quickly realises, the hollowing in him. Anger towards him: for feeling too much, for imagining things that will never take place, for being harsh to you when you didn’t deserve it. Anger towards you: for coming here tonight, for deciding to approach him and inquire after him, caring about him in a friend-like manner.

  At this moment, he wishes you hated him. It’d be much easier. Then, he’d have a reason to hate you as well.

  The last hours before closing time he lives in a thick fog, but the ground underneath him burns.

  It’s almost like he’s back in the desert again, but this time he’s deliberately driving into that mine.

  Constantly keeping his eye on you, just in case anything takes place, watching you get more and more intoxicated. Not as much as some of your friends, though: he is glad about that. But the way one of them keeps touching you has him seething.

  Jealousy is an old friend of his, something so deeply rooted within him that it doesn’t even feel strange anymore. Now, the heat in him isn’t born from anger; the sudden dull pain in him like he’s been shot is envy. Deep want to be with you, and hating those who get to do that.

  Clyde doesn’t know what he wants to do, but he knows what he has to do.

  Remain quiet, that he can do. Keep going as if the emotions within him don’t exist, that he’s already learned. But to see you, frequently, like some kind of metaphorical knife twisting in the invisible wound? That is not something he is certain he can handle.

  He knows he can’t have you. No reason for you to go around and remind him of that.

\--

  For two more Fridays, he can take it. He becomes distant, as it is the only way he knows. By shielding himself from you he also shields you from himself, keeps his gaze away and words short. Isolated, lost in his own head, thoughts running in that one, small circle like convicts in the jail yard. It’s the only way he can be safe: without confrontation things go as normal, and he can handle it, even though it hurts.

  Two more Fridays, and still, you keep asking. You keep guessing. Every time, he turns you down, hoping this time is the last, and he can finally begin to sew his wounds back together.

  Then, _you_ break.

  Out of the two of you, he always thought he would be the one to give in. In one way or another, maybe when he’s drank too much while on the job, or confessing his feelings a rage-clouded moment, just to get your attention.

  But no: it’s you. It’s you who stays behind even when every other customer leaves and even then, when Clyde says he’s closing, you don’t budge. Instead, you come around to the other side of the counter and jump on it, with a fiery determination in your eyes. Clyde is both irritated and elated by that look. It means trouble for him.

  “I know I was rudely interrupted a few Fridays back,” you start before he gets to say anything. “And if you want to, we could finish that conversation now.”

  You breathe deeply and then continue: “Clyde. I– I like you a lot. You’re very dear to me, and never a burden, even if you sometimes seem to think so. I want to help you, truly.”

  “Why? Why’d you want to?” he asks in the slow drawl of his accent.

  He has to know. It’s something that’s been eating him, from the inside out, right from the start when you came to him for the first time, asking after him. Why are you so persistent, when he clearly has nothing to offer? Why do you care?

  “Why do any of us have to do anything? I wanna know what’s bothering you, since it’s clearly taking its toll on you. I just want you to be happy,” you say, and then stay quiet for a second, searching for more words, more ways to convince him. Clyde hopes you give up and let it go. “Please.”

  “But it’ll ruin what we got.” _Whatever that is._

  You huff a breath and cross your hands over your chest, but it’s not aggressive or offensive. You’re defending _yourself_.  “So it’s about me.”

  “I never said–” he starts, but then trails off, deciding to back down. You’re not stupid, and he doesn’t want to make you seem like such. So, he surrenders – for this one, simple truth. “It is.”

  “Do you… not like me?”

  “No, no, it ain’t that, I swear. You’re great.”

 _Brilliant. Amazing. Breathtaking._ Just like this, stubborn and demanding, forcing him to keep his hand by his side lest he digs it into his chest and gives his heart to you. But that’s _you_ , always has been. Looking after him, no matter how much he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. Still believes it to be so. But you don’t heed his warnings, no matter how quiet or loud they are.

 _I love you_ , he thinks. Almost says it.

  So very close.

  “What is it then?”

  He can’t. He _can’t_. He says so wordlessly, shaking his head and closing his eyes. Now the burning in his throat stops him from swallowing, and he can’t breathe. He’s going to drown on dry land, choke on the words that he can’t say.

  He opens his eyes again when he feels you lay a hand on his right arm. But his vision is hazy, and when he blinks, he feels tears running down his cheeks. The first sob gathers in his throat, a desperate whimper shaking his body.

  “Oh, Clyde…”

  You pull him into an embrace, one hand on his shoulder, the other gently in his hair as he presses his head in your chest, his own hand hanging by his side: still afraid to touch. Always afraid, even when he’s breaking under your hands.

  Then he cries.

  For all the moments he has kept it in, he cries. For the seconds he could’ve said something, the hours he has spent feeling furious. For the shame that seems to never leave him, even now.

  When you start to stroke his hair, he gathers the courage to lift his hand to rest on your waist, and just that combination of touching and being touched, something soothing he hasn’t felt for years — he cries for missing out on it, this newfound feeling of safety. He cries for the words still inside him, yearning for the sunlight that is within their reach, but still so far away. Truly, what he feels is something so extraordinary that the words could never do it justice, but he still can’t bear to say them; he has kept them in for he never believed to be worthy enough to say them.

  For a long moment, you caress his hair and let him weep, until his shoulders have stopped shaking and his voice is rough from the sobs.

  He wishes he could stay like this forever, in this silence with you, where nothing is demanded from him and he only has your comfort.

  “Please Clyde, tell me. What burdens you so?”

  Another wave of emotion rises within him at your words, but he pushes it down and grits his teeth. Your voice is so gentle and understanding, lulling him to a false sense of security, and it makes him snap back into reality. Slowly, he pulls away from your hands and swallows but doesn’t say anything yet; the heavy feeling in his heart is far too tender, far too fragile, and he fears that new words are going to break it.

  “Have I been a bad friend?” you continue, genuinely worried and so painstakingly honest.

  Clyde clears his throat and then, finally, in a low voice: “Friends would never care as much as you do, so... I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really?”

  He nods, and then looks away to the ground, ashamed. He can already feel your pitying gaze on him, and it’s the last thing he needs right now. He knows he’s not the best at keeping friends, let alone good friends; everyone else always has someone more important, and it’s been alright. But it’s also why he has no idea why you’re still so hung up on him.

  “Hey,” you start, and foolishly, like a beaten dog, he looks back up. “It’s alright, if you don’t have many friends. I’ve just always thought you’re the kind of person everyone would want to befriend.”

_Really? Me? Are you listening to yourself?_

  “Others don’t seem to think so.”

  “Well, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t true, though. You just gotta find the right people.”

  Oh, how very optimistic you are. It’s endearing in its own way, but also frustrating. Why can’t you _see_?

  “I– I guess you’re right.”

  “I tend to be,” you say, smiling just a little. But there’s still worry in your eyes, concern for him and his troubles. “That’s why I’d like to know what is it that bothers you. It would help if you talked it out. And if it’s about me, then… No better person to talk to than me, right?”

  “I wouldn’t… be so sure about that,” he replies, stuttering a little, and your smile falls. You don’t try to continue but remain silent, almost confused. Indeed, this is not the way he indented things to go.

  How did he imagine it, then?

  Preferably, you would never have to find out. You’d stop moping around, stop using your energy to worry about someone as insignificant as him. You wouldn’t show up on Fridays anymore, and he could forget and move on, for good.

  But that plan seems to be out of question.

  That’s when he realises that he just needs to ask for more time. He tells this to you.

  “I’m– I don’t know if I can talk about it yet. I just… I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to know. Anything you wanna say, you can.”

  If it only was that easy.

  “M’sorry, I don’t think I can say anything. Not now.”

  You blink in confusion and then bite your lip, as if you haven’t been expecting such an answer. You’re looking at him like he’s a puzzle waiting to be solved, a ball of yarn that’s yet to unravel – and god, does he hate that.

  “Oh. That’s… alright,” you say, and then hop off the counter in defeat. His signal that you’re done digging, done questioning, and indeed, it has led you nowhere.

  He hopes you’ll realise that and finally leave him alone.

  Before you take your leave, you square your shoulders and for a second just stand, look at him up and down before saying: “But when you feel like talking, you can always call me. Okay? Whenever you want to.”

  He nods, again doubting his ability to speak. When you don’t get an answer, you simply smile and then take off, out of the door like you’d never been there.

  Once you’re gone, Clyde starts to cry again.

\--

  The moment you and him shared felt so short-lived, like a dream he had imagined in a drunken state. When the next day comes around and you don’t show up, for a while he truly thinks it all took place in his head. But then he remembers that it’s Saturday, and you never visit Duct Tape on Saturdays.

  It makes the day easier, and he doesn’t even think you that much.

  On Sunday he stays home, and the four walls that sometimes build a prison around him don’t feel as bad as they usually do. He makes coffee and burns his bacon, taking his time in the morning in a new, calming manner. Usually, there is a heavy weight on his shoulders, an itch in his fingers that makes everything numb, and when that’s combined with the phantom ache in his arm he still sometimes has – well, that spells out the recipe for a moody, rough day.

  Not today, though.

  The memory of your reassurance is hazy, but now he trusts it to be real. It has to be; otherwise he wouldn’t feel this light. When someone walks in a fog for the longest time, even the smallest stripe of sunlight changes things. He feels clarity, he feels resolve.

  He might be ready to tell you.

  Until the day ends and he isn’t.

  The clarity is long gone. It's like a distant fragment, a passing thought. In the morning he felt good, better than in a long time, but when the evening arrives, he begins to doubt again, for no tangible reason.

  If he had only kept himself composed, this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t been weak, unable to handle the situation like an adult, he wouldn’t be feeling like this. He’s certain of that. He thinks your reaction to his tears, how foolish he was to let his guard down, to be _vulnerable_. 

  For days, he keeps dancing between this line, constantly hopping between confidence and insecurity. Some mornings start slow, he feels like crying just because he can’t see you today, feels like screaming because someone else gets to see you today. He stares your number on his phone, the messages you’ve sent him before.

 _What are you doing now?_ he wants to text you, just to know that you’re alright. Maybe he’d even get a laugh out of it, whatever it’d be. You have the tendency to do things he could be amused by, even the most ordinary ones. But then he thinks about you with your friends or family and decides otherwise. He’s sure you wouldn’t want him spoiling your day, asking after you impatiently when he has no right to do so. If you want to talk, you’ll let him know.

  But the silence is overwhelming, and he feels heavy from the loneliness. It’s not just in his mind, either; he wakes up one day with a pounding headache in his temples even though he hasn’t had a drink in three days. He can’t concentrate on anything, switching back and forth on tasks and not really getting anything done, like his mind is running a marathon and he’s far too exhausted to keep up.

 _People turn their back on those who are too much_.

  He’s not sure where that thought came from, or when, but it’s taken residence in the back of his mind, always stopping him on his tracks when he thinks about reaching out. It makes him think of the ways he’s been _too much_ , everything all at once. How much it frightens him; how much it would frighten others. It is easy to just _say_ you can handle whatever he has to offer, but when he'd actually burden you with his problems, well… Let’s just say he doesn’t want to be around to see that.

  Who wouldn’t turn their back on him? After seeing he’s not at all what he’s made himself out to be, who wouldn’t?

\--

  A week goes by, and then it’s Sunday again. Clyde only realises this when he’s heading out to work, but remembers he doesn’t have to. Not today.

  For a moment he stands by the front door. He hasn’t touched alcohol for over a week now but his head feels fuzzy in the same way it would when he’s taken too much. Like he doesn’t really have control over his actions, like everything happens out of his own conscious mind. Like he doesn’t have to think.

  That’s why he heads out anyways; grabs his keys and his heart lurches in his chest, almost like a warning, when he realises what he’s going to do. But then he lets the feeling take over again; he doesn’t let himself think about it, only his footsteps that lead him to his truck and his hands that switch the gears and turn the steering wheel. He looks, but he doesn’t see. In the intersection he takes a right instead of the usual left, but he doesn’t think about that either. He doesn’t think about where this road leads, how only a mile or so more and then he can spot your little house from the road. He doesn’t think about that.

  Only once he parks in front of your house, he notices his hand is shaking. He feels nauseous, his whole body tense, ready to flee like a threatened animal. But he walks to your front door and knocks. A part of him desperately hopes you're not home, begs this whole ordeal to just _stop_. His heart is beating too fast, he can't breathe, and he... just stands still. Doesn't make an effort to move even though his body tells him otherwise.

  Just when he gathers the courage to leave, you open the door. 

  "Clyde! What are you doing here?" 

 First he thinks of lying, but he's never been good at that. He's come here with a purpose, and he's so scared, but he doesn't have anything else left but the truth. It's all he's got. 

  "I... I've got something to say."

  You're a little bit confused, but you smile and nod nevertheless, leaning against the door frame. Clearly curious. "Alright. Whatcha want to say?"

  “I love you.”

  He manages to catch a glimpse of your widened eyes, agape mouth, but he can’t look at you now or he’ll silence himself forever, for good. “I love you, and I’m sorry I’m bein’ like this. You said it don’t bother you but how can it not? I’m no good for you, nothing what you’d deserve. That’s why I didn’t tell you, ‘cause I was afraid. Still am.”

  “Clyde…”

  “I’m sorry,” is all he says, all he can think. Doesn’t even know what he’s being sorry for. The burning in his throat starts again when you don't say anything, but he is done crying in front of you. "I know I shouldn't've said anything but... At least you know now."

  He takes off, turns his back on you. You say his name again like a plea, but he doesn't listen. Not until he hears your steps on the gravel catching up to his, your hand grasping his arm. Gently, with a force more powerful than any of his angry thoughts.

  He stops and turns to you, but he doesn’t look at you.

  Instead, for the first time in his life, he _sees_ you.

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know, i didn't think i'd write something this angsty either. but sometimes, your own mind becomes too much and you decide to project your issues onto your favourite country boy. 
> 
> as you probably realised, this wasn't the happiest fic. mostly it's just me, trying to figure out what the fuck i'm supposed to do with these feelings of mine, sorting it all through a fictional character. it's irrational, it's odd, but when these kind of problems are rational and sensible? it's also been... cathartic to write, at the very least.
> 
> i've left the ending open, just because at where i'm right now, i haven't had an ending to these feelings yet, and i so i didn't feel like he could have a clear ending either. i want to believe in a happy ending, though, so in this one it can be happy too, if you want it to be. and if anyone really wants, i might try add another chapter and give it a proper happy ending. but i do like how it turned out, even if it's a bit rushed, so i doubt i'll be adding anything else to this.
> 
> also, i tagged this as multi instead of the usual m/f, just because the gender isn't specified, and so it can be whoever you, the reader, are!
> 
> anyways, i'm sorry for making him a tad too sad. you can come scream about it in the comments if you wish to. i'll catch y'all later with some happier stuff, i promise!


End file.
